Murder in Foggy Bottom by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

well aware that the missile theorists, for example, were less than credible—a generous lay psychological evaluation.
    A young volunteer fireman came up to him. “There’s nobody alive,” he said.
    “What’s that?” Lazzara asked, referring to something the firefighter held.
    “A necklace. Found it over there.” He pointed. “Must have belonged to a passenger.” He handed it to Lazzara, who fingered the four-leaf clover.
    “A good luck charm,” Lazzara said grimly. “Some luck.” He handed it back to the firefighter—“Give this to the NTSB people”—and turned as several men arrived. They wore blue windbreakers with NTSB emblazoned in yellow on the back.
    “Frank Lazzara, FBI,” the special agent said, extending his hand to the leader.
    “O’Connell, NTSB, Parsippany. Any survivors?”
    “Negative so far. I’m afraid it’ll be negative forever.”
    O’Connell looked back up the trail he and his people had used to reach the scene. “We’ll need a bulldozer to widen that out, get a road down here.”
    The mayor of a nearby village overheard the comment and said, “I’ll arrange it right away.”
    Lazzara took O’Connell aside. “You’ll be heading the investigation?” he asked.
    “No. Pete Mullin from Washington should be here any minute.”
    “You’ve heard about the other two,” Lazzara said.
    “Yeah.”
    “There’s got to be a link.”
    O’Connell shrugged. “To be determined.”
    “Got to be,” Lazzara repeated. “What were the other planes?”
    “Another Dash 8 in Boise, a Saab 34 in San Jose.”
    “Saab? Like the car?”
    “Yeah. A commuter plane operated by a regional carrier.”
    “Survivors?”
    “None reported.”
    Lazzara pondered whether to mention the eyewitness report. O’Connell spared him that decision. “An eyewitness in California says she saw something hit the Saab shortly after takeoff.”
    “I heard that. Play for you?”
    Another shrug.
    Peter Mullin and his experts came down the narrow hiking trail, followed by volunteers from the Westchester Red Cross office. Mullin had been glad to see them. Having investigated dozens of aircraft accident scenes, his respect for the Red Cross and its support was unbridled. Sometimes, it was only the coffee and encouraging good cheer dispensed by the dedicated volunteers that kept him and his people going through the night.
    Mullin was greeted by O’Connell, who introduced Lazzara to the lead investigator.
    “Any witnesses?” Mullin asked.
    “Not that I know of,” Lazzara said. “We have more agents coming from the city. I told the local police to start canvassing houses in the area.”
    “Good.”
    The combined NTSB teams from Parsippany and Washington fanned out to examine those areas of the wreckage of particular interest to them, taking pictures as they went. EMS personnel brought the first empty body bags down the hiking trail, and a pastor from a local church arrived on the scene. Mullin thanked the clergyman for coming, but told him he’d have to bestow any blessings from a distance. No one not directly involved in the investigation was allowed beyond the perimeter established by uniformed officers.
    Lazzara trailed after Mullin as he slowly, cautiously walked among the twisted, charred wreckage and bodies and body parts, which seemed to Lazzara the product of the bizarre and warped imagination of a macabre performance artist—meant to shock rather than inspire. They stood side by side and looked down at a teddy bear spotted with blood.
    “Kids are the worst,” Mullin said.
    “Yeah. I have one. A year old.”
    Mullin turned at the sound of his name. Two state troopers new to the scene stood at the foot of the trail. Between them was a fisherman wearing a tan fishing vest with multiple pockets over a tan shirt with still more pockets.
    “Who’s this?” Mullin asked a trooper.
    “He says he saw the accident.”
    “You did, sir?” Mullin asked.
    “Yes, I did,” Al Lester said. His round face